


Morgan's Nose

by FELover



Series: One Day Last Fall [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Also tiny PoR/RD references, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst of life, Domesticity, F/M, Family, Slice of Life, just because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-05 23:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5394239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FELover/pseuds/FELover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION</p><p>At this point she knows a lot about guns too. That's all he ever writes about.</p><p>He won’t feel off the hook until he does this. Kind of like when they have sex; sometimes he feels he can take a break if they've done it three times in a week. </p><p>Robin doesn’t watch the TV anymore. She never likes what she hears.</p><p>(He tried not to get any ideas.)</p><p>She says her backyard would be perfect for growing corn if it wasn't so shady.</p><p>The lists of names. </p><p>She makes popcorn sometimes. </p><p>Then there is a small hand reaching through a bundle of fabric that has been laid on his arms.</p><p>[In which Robin and Lon'qu stay together just for the sake of staying together. They're not exactly a happy couple, but they have their own visions of a happy life, and achieve them to some extent.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morgan's Nose

_"No gunfire, famine, or flies. Just lots of toothpaste, gardening and people stuff." -Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves_

* * *

 

Lon’qu knows it by the way that nasty look makes him want to shrink in on himself and disappear - although he makes as if he doesn't notice or doesn’t care with a casual shrug. He knows Robin’s father doesn’t like him, and he knows he shouldn’t care. But he can’t stop himself if he does.

He could have restrained himself from approaching her, he considers now. And while he’s thinking about it he also wonders what he’s doing here in the first place. It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon at the shopping precinct. And not that it’s important or anything, but he had thought that Robin looked very pretty with pink and white begonias from a flower shop at her back, when he spotted her at a distance.

He’d approached her without thinking too much about it. And while her father had jumped at the casual kiss Robin had given him (he licked the gloss off his lips only after the man looked away), her mother gave her permission to hang around with him before meeting them again at a nearby parking lot to go back home.

He has twenty minutes or so and twenty G he doesn’t know what to do about. That’s not good enough for a movie and the snacks she likes, nor does he have the time or the courage to invite her, although he thinks she wants him to ask her anyways, just for the sake of asking.

Want to go to the movies? Popcorn and sodas on me.

Maybe another time. You know, when we have the time. But thanks for asking. Let’s make it a date.

Maybe she just wants the promise that they’ll see each other again, like she’s in constant fear of the earth splitting and they’ll end up on opposite sides of the globe. He’s had similar thoughts now that graduation approaches, but he tries ignoring those thoughts the same as the glare of Robin’s father.

The last time they tried having an honest-to-God conversation about that, she ended up in tears and he feeling like the scum of the earth. And he decided honesty was overrated.

The day goes by and neither of them likes it when the sun goes down. Robin huddles into his side and he drapes an arm over her shoulders, like a warm blanket. He walks her to the parking lot with a steady pace because he’s never wanted to be the type of guy who keeps his girl out too late or gets her in trouble. It’s just not who he is. At times, he kind of wishes he was. Perhaps when they’re making out and his hand is under her shirt, and hers are somewhere that feels too good to be true and suddenly she stops and says they’re going too fast.

He wishes he could ask for just a little more.

But he doesn’t because that’s not who he is.

And he kind of doesn’t like who he is.

* * *

 

 

 One day he has a dream that Robin is sitting at a table across from him, and he’s frankly a little disgusted with the tabletop all covered in what seems to be spit-out applesauce. He’s not going to say anything about it. Instead he sips at his coffee standing up while she asks him to sit down so they can have a meal like a proper family.

Until she speaks that word, he doesn’t notice that she’s older. And so is he. And there’s a third person in there with them.

He forgets who this person is when he wakes up, and then he goes to get the mail like his father asks him and almost misses the letter addressed to him.

Bill, bill, flyer, charity, bill… wait, what is _that_?

Halfway back to his house, he opens the letter and stops walking when he realizes what it is.

He stands there for a while.

ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION

Scared.

* * *

 

 Robin doesn’t watch the TV anymore. She never likes what she hears. She’s in college now and there is a group of girls who, like her, have boyfriends who shipped out to Valm for a two-year tour of duty. Her roommate, who happens to be the leader or something, holds meetings in their dormitory. That’s 228 square feet of fifteen or so girls huddled together, some who almost always cry, some very quiet and somber all the time, some that look like they just think this is like a sorority kind of thing and bring snacks.

Robin has learned to be civil about it all and doesn’t say a word when the wilting flower they call Olivia settles by her side on her bed because there’s no more space on the floor.

They all chipped in to buy a 7-inch Widescreen LCD TV. They sit around it like it’s a bonfire at the beach. They gossip a bit to fill in the silence before the news and for a short while Robin listens and learns that Jill, a girl with red hair that dangles below her waist even when she holds it in a ponytail, is going to make devil’s food cake with coconut icing for the next time they meet. Ilyana is looking forward to that, she’s so hungry all the time.

It’s anxiety they tell her, but it’s alright, they all are the same.

Not me, Robin wants to tell them and it’s a miracle they don’t notice her face growing red with the pressure of held-in words like, This is all an excuse so you can get fat and not feel bad about it.

They start talking about wet dreams that they have and how some of them, if their boyfriends don’t come back soon and do something about it, will most likely make them go mad. And they joke it’s them who suffer the most. They talk and it’s like Robin (still a virgin; she wanted to do it with Lon’qu before he left but he thought it was like a sort of goodbye and he didn’t like the idea, she felt so dumb she even said a thing) is invisible when she gets fed up and picks up the bright orange gooseneck lamp that Lon’qu got her for her birthday before he left and goes to sit down on a corner of the room.

Olivia asks her meekly where she’s going, can she braid her hair for her? but Robin doesn’t answer.

There is only one free outlet left (the other girls are taking turns with the other one to charge their phones and Robin wants to get to it before they notice it behind a pair of boots) and it’s near the door, so when one girl who is late to watch the news with them comes in swinging the door open all the way Robin gets a bruised knee.

She only hisses and gets a, You should be more careful where you sit.

She wants to say she wouldn’t be in the stupid corner if they let her turn on the lights, why the hell do they have to be off, when was she when they voted to meet here, this is her room too, she has a say.

But she doesn’t.

She grips her pencil and makes an effort not to write about this to Lon’qu. It doesn’t seem fair that he’s somewhere strange, probably scared although he would never show it, and all she wants to write to him is what an assortment of bitches these girls are.

Writing has never been a problem for her, until now. She used to write letters to her grandmother all the time when she was hospitalized, up until the very day she died. And then she wrote one more that she put into her coffin instead of a rose. She also wrote love letters for Lon’qu before they started dating, though she never gave them to him.

She used to write pages at a time.

Some of those letters were so embarrassing she still blushes when she thinks on them, but now she wishes she hadn’t lost them when she moved from home so she could send them to him now that she seems to be at a loss. They’d been in a shoebox (floral canvas lace-up sneakers; she thinks she should start wearing more mature shoewear) that was mysteriously nowhere to be found when she unpacked to settle in her dorm. She had not been alone at the time she found what she’d lost, so she ran for the bathroom and cried with the hood of her sweater stuffed in her mouth to keep from making any sounds.

She forages in her brain for words but finds none.

What she decides to write to him then is that a baby boy from their town got some of his fingers crushed after his father, who was backing into their garage and didn’t see him playing there, ran over his right hand. And remember Gaius from school? I knew you didn’t like him much, neither did I. He crashed his car after a party where he’d drunk too much and killed a whole family who’d gone out for takeout. My neighbor, I don’t remember his name, hung himself on the apple tree whose branches scratch against my old room’s window. He was old and unmarried.

My parents are getting divorced, she thinks of writing but remembers that the letter isn’t supposed to be about her.

* * *

 

 The first lieutenant reaches his hand into a decrepit version of a Santa Claus gift bag and boys (they’re still just boys) huddle around him, they moths and he the flame, hoping that they don’t look eager.

Lon’qu is one among the ones in the back. He belongs in the group of silent ones. The ones who get up slowly from their cots like they don’t care if they get mail or not but since they did, they might as well open it. The ones that don’t look it on the outside, but inside they’re maybe more scared than the articulate ones.

The ones who see and don’t forget: Can’t.

First he gets the usual care package from a girl who always signs anonymous in her letters, where she tells him that she lost her dad in the war with Plegia all those years ago and she hopes it’s not strange or anything but writing this letter to him, whoever he is, wherever he is from, is the only thing that makes her feel she’s doing something useful this time around with Valm. Less alone too; she’s just moved away with her mom and she’s not the best at making new friends.

He doesn’t mind.

It makes him feel horrible that he opens Robin’s letters first, because it’s never good news with her and he just wants to read it and toss it aside so the anonymous girl can make him feel better with her tales of her home, where it almost never rains, but when it does it’s very pleasant, and there’s a nest of red squirrels on her front yard’s tree.

The first time he shrugged off the gloom and wondered if those news articles Robin sent him - fires, robberies, and Gaius’ crash that made it to the local papers - were supposed to mean anything under the cruelness and morbidity of it all.

Maybe she means to say that misery is everywhere. It’s no paradise back home either. Wherever there’s people, there’s suffering.

He could appreciate the thought, if he tried. But these days he doesn’t have the energy to try. It’s easier to open packages of chocolate biscottis on a cushion of crumpled wax paper at the bottom of an airtight container, a note, _With Love_ , taped on top.

The cookies are always wrapped with care, in pairs bottom to bottom with waxed paper between them. Snug but not so much so that they might break.

Lon’qu is among the few that get two sets of different mail and one time they ask him, which one is from your parents?

None, he tells them. It’s only him and his dad but his dad wasn’t the type to send distractions. The silent ones stay silent and look at him with eyes like they understand while the others just say, Oh, and look away. Someone who doesn’t realize when to shut up asks him then if the other one, the one that isn’t the care package similar to everyone’s, is from his girlfriend.

He gives a nonchalant positive response to that.

Which one is it?

He hesitates a moment before answering: ...The cookies.

* * *

 

Robin hasn’t laughed in a long time. Not that she’s laughing now, but inside everything is bubbly. This scares her though, and when Chrom (a few months older, met him at the library - no more studying, just a way to pass her time - when they pulled chairs at the same table without noticing, how cheesy) asks her what her favorite song is she looks down at her wristwatch (very casual).

Is it really that late? she hadn't realized. She’s so sorry, she has to go. She’s waiting for a call. Her boyfriend, she says.

(This is a lie; he never calls. She doesn’t know why. She doesn’t call him either - she hasn’t asked him if he’d like her to -, so it’s not fair to be mad.)

Chrom’s smile falters a little but nods and lets her go.

* * *

 

 The truck rumbles noisily as the platoon heads for their destination. Somewhere unknown; everywhere is unknown. Lon’qu knows this is important and they’re headed for a reported hideout of… He doesn’t remember who. It’s not like he cares a lot. Shoot they say, he shoots. He’s never asked why or how - his father used to take him during hunting season with him and taught him how to hold a rifle and how to aim.

He also taught him how to till the garden back when his mother still lived. Now neither of them seem to have the courage to touch it. But since it’s a skill he has he didn’t see a reason not to mention it in the letter he sent back to the anonymous girl a few weeks back (he wouldn’t have been able to, but she was sensible enough to interpret his lack of response as meaning that his platoon, among others, ran out of paper to write home so she sent him a Faded Blue Chai Tea Stationery Package of 100 pieces with the ghost of a cherry tree at the bottom right corner near the dotted line that borders the pages.)

She says her backyard would be perfect for growing corn if it wasn’t so shady, maybe she’ll get somebody to cut down that incredibly leafy tree at the front when the squirrels move, she doesn’t have the heart to leave them homeless just now with the cold still hanging heavily. It’s not a good season for corn either.

He imagines it can’t be any harm if he tells her how to properly use a tiller, what kind is best if she’s planning on doing it herself or if there is somebody (he avoids asking, Is there a man...? that’s none of his business and he shouldn’t care) who can help her.

You’re pretty knowledgeable about this, aren’t you? she asked in her response letter and asked what else could he tell her, she would appreciate any and all the insight he could give. Sure she could look it up, but she likes to ask friends for help. It’s one thing to read an expert’s opinion, but another feeling entirely to hear it from someone you like.

(He tried not to get any ideas.)

He asked her to send him pictures of her backyard and the front yard too at different times of the day to see what the angle of the sun was, maybe he’d find a spot where she could grow her corn without cutting the tree.

He’s always had a knack for planning of this kind. The girl, who now has a name, Ke’ri, sent him a sketch of the grounds at the back of her house along with the photos (photos where her presence wasn’t necessary yet there she was, and he pretended not to like her smile) and he marked each corner of the new garden plot each with an X. Wrote to her to use wooden stakes, tie strings between the stakes to mark the edges. You could also sprinkle powdered limestone to mark the garden border. Use a spade to peel off the grass but leave as much topsoil as possible...

Advice for newbies he doesn’t mind giving to Ke’ri. Strange, since he’s never been very patient at explaining things. He’s no teacher. Robin asked him once to help her plant a rosebush, but although she always looked pretty surrounded by flowers she never really liked gardening. She’d just wanted to spend the time with him but she always needed an excuse to, he didn’t understand why.

There is a voice suddenly.

This is it, men.

* * *

 

Olivia isn’t so bad, Robin acquiesces. It’s only the fact that she is part of that awful club, or whatever they refer to it as, that made her reluctant to associate. If only the girl could find it in her to be less shy, they could have longer, more substantial conversations. All in all though, she’s not a bad conversationalist. She just prefers to let her dancing do the talking.

Olivia used to dream of being in this one dancing TV show she watched as a kid. She won contests here and there. She shows Robin the pictures where she’s wearing sparkly dresses that, if Olivia wasn’t smiling so bright in those pictures, would make Robin think were too snug for her (uncomfortably so). She also takes out her collection of silk scarves and some Chon’sin fans that Robin doesn’t like. Not because they aren’t pretty but everything Chon’sin related reminds her of Lon’qu.

She keeps his letters in a new shoebox from a pair of nude stretch flats like the ones Olivia wears, they looked so comfortable she had to get a pair. They go with almost everything too. Yes, they’re an investment (a compromise, more like), but she’s thinking of making good impressions harder now that she got promoted to manager at a breakfast place near campus.

The money’s good and she doesn’t know what it is, but she thinks a life like this wouldn’t be too bad. Olivia is a simple girl and she’s taught Robin that simple can be nice.

I’m so happy for you, she said when Robin told her that her boss offered her the managerial position. But can you handle that and classes…?

That’s the thing, Robin said. I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I think I need to take some time from all this. It won’t hurt to work in the meanwhile, I doubt either of my parents will be happy and willing to support me when I do this.

You say when, not if. You already made your decision, didn’t you? Are you going to write to him about that? I think you should. Virion - that is her boyfriend - always tells me it’s great to hear from home.

Robin considers this. She doesn’t enjoy looking for accidents on the papers or asking people what terrible news they have to tell (she used to think it wasn’t fair for her to be able to sleep soundly while Lon’qu was away). But maybe she can say something different now. She takes out Lon’qu’s letters and reads them again looking for things she might make a cute comment about.

_Oh, that’s interesting. You know so much about guns._

But at this point she knows a lot about guns too, because that’s all Lon’qu ever writes about. Pistols, rifles, assault rifles, submachine and machine guns, shotguns and flamethrowers he’s never used, he writes to her, but he’s seen them. It’s not something you want to be pointed at with.

(She has nightmares of deadlines and burning alive.)

Maybe she will ask where he gets his paper, she likes it a lot. Didn’t think fine stationery was in the army’s supply list. Would that be considered nagging? She doesn’t want to do that, even though she does wonder where he could get it from. It doesn’t say Lon’qu at all.

* * *

 

 Lon’qu counts seven beams in total. Seven beams of light from flashlights fixed atop machine guns sweeping the dense greenery in this godforsaken forest somewhere in Valm.

He doesn’t recall when everything went wrong, only that everything went wrong. And as his platoon scattered in different directions he too ran through smoke, slower because there was somebody on his back.

Vaike isn’t a bad person. He’s not managed to become his best friend or anything like that. He’s in fact loud, obnoxious, kind of naive but not really stupid like he looks and too happy-go-lucky for where they are and the situation they’re in.

Vaike, Lon’qu could never define him, never belonged in the group of silent ones, but neither did he belong with the others (too much to belong in either group). He’s more like the last of his kind, whatever he is.

They’re hiding amongst the shrubbery, Lon’qu on his stomach, head low to the ground, eyes narrowed piercing the dark. Vaike is on his back however. He opens his eyes with some effort and makes a sound.

Keep quiet dumbass, Lon’qu tells him but doesn’t jab his side like he might do if Vaike didn’t have a gaping shot wound on his flank. He told him to keep pressure on it, dammit.

Look, Vaike tries to get his attention again. Either he doesn’t hear or doesn’t care Lon’qu growling that he has to shut up there’s at least seven of the enemy and just two of them and they’re fucking lost.

It’s been cloudy all day. Vaike knew it wasn’t a good sign, he never liked cloudy days. But it’s not so bad anymore. It’s dark, but, through swaying foliage, he can see the stars coming out.

Lon’qu doesn’t dare breathe too loudly until the flashlights are gone and the sounds of fallen leaves crunching under boots stop completely. Then he asks what is it, what is so important, what does he need from him?

There is only silence.

He doesn’t know what to feel (he’s seen too many die, his heart is tired). Doesn’t know if he can feel anything except fear. If there is someone he didn’t expect would die it was Vaike. He thought it could happen, but didn’t want to see it.

One of his legs is bleeding, he doesn’t remember which one. Both hurt. Did he really run that long? There is a garden, somewhere. Not in Valm. He clenches his eyes shut and tries imagining that garden bathed in the sun.

He feels more fear seeping into his heart.

Squirrels, he thinks. Curled up against their mother’s furry side. Up on a tree, in front of a window through which a girl, who writes to some soldier she doesn’t know because of her father who died in a previous war, looks out.

More fear.

These thoughts don’t comfort him. They make him more afraid. Didn’t think it was possible to be more afraid.

Then he remembers that nameless neighbor who hung himself on an apple tree Robin told him about. It doesn’t exactly make him feel better, but the sensation overtaking him isn’t fear again. Maybe it’s his imagination, but he can hear a small cry. A kid just got his hand crushed by the wheel of his father’s car. Gaius, who no one would ever trust alone with their backpacks but never bullied anyone and gave Robin candy for helping him with math classes, is alone and crushed by guilt behind bars. There are dark whispers in the night drifting in past the bars of his cell like poison gas, and he can’t sleep, can’t trust anyone at his back. He’s scared.

So is Lon’qu still, but now he’s even angrier.

There is suffering everywhere, not just here. Wherever people go they will hurt.

He can curl in on himself now, think warm thoughts of a girl he’s never met.

Or he can take this anger of his, wield it like a crutch and get out of here. He needs to do it alone, he can’t be getting sentimental if he hopes to get back to camp, there is no reason to carry someone who already had a nice last sight.

Lon’qu looks up then. Up in the boundless sky, he sees stars.

* * *

 

Olivia’s shirt is getting progressively wet as Robin cries into her bosom and the space between her breasts is moist. The other girls are knocking constantly on the door, they want to come in, it’s almost time for the news.

But she won’t open.

Lon’qu hasn’t written in months.

* * *

 

It’s been a few months since Lon’qu’s last letter.

Ke’ri looks out the window of her room, kind of sad but not allowing herself to feel much. She should have known that she couldn’t get too attached but it’s hard not grieving. Sometimes the body will go ahead without your consent, like how her heart started beating just seeing the mailbox even if she knew Lon’qu’s letters wouldn’t come in for another day.

She looks back at the letter resting on her dressing table next to another package of stationery she was meaning to send (she bought it two weeks back as a kind of promise not to give up on him. Her hope has dwindled. She no longer dreams of planting corn in her yard.) What is she going to do with that now?

Well. There is one thing. She likes doing origami a lot.

Or, she has been thinking of that website she found the other day: WriteAPrisoner.com; she just wants to make somebody feel less alone. _She_ wants to feel less alone.

She walks to the table (puts on her sandals; it’s a peculiarity about her that she can’t walk barefoot even inside her room).

She goes to Inmate Profiles (Why is there a MOST POPULAR option? What does that mean? What is popularity based around?). Picks an alphabetical listing of profiles and although she doesn’t like some of the pictures there (the guy sticking out his tongue, specifically), one catches her eyes.

Gaius (it rolls off the tongue).

She takes a deep breath, exhales, Lon’qu, like a letting-go act, and picks up her pen.

 _My father died in the Plegian war_ , she begins.

* * *

 

The hospital is not a happy place.

The nurses are not bad, it’s just that Lon'qu doesn’t have anyone to talk to. He wants to write to somebody, but doesn’t know who. He doesn’t know what to say either. He’s never been good with words but right now the problem is worse.

He feels like a pressure cooker, like the one his mother had.

His leg is better now, doesn’t feel much pain.

He hasn’t let go of that crutch though: Anger.

* * *

 

Olivia tells her to keep writing. Don’t give up.

Maybe it’s silly, or strange, to write about. But it’s better than sending him more newspaper cut-outs.

She visited her mother the other day and went to walk along the reef. She found an used pregnancy test where they used to sit to throw rocks into the lake, does he remember where? It’s the first pregnancy test she’s ever seen. An used one, that is. On their way back to her mother’s new house - she wasn’t paying attention to what her mom was saying in the car; probably more nagging about returning to college and whatnot - she saw a red couch on the sidewalk near a STOP sign, and for some reason that made her sad.

She’s been thinking about the pregnancy test and the couch. She thinks it has to mean something (of course it doesn’t, it’s just her imagination, but still...).

She’s waiting for him, she wants to write.

She’s learning to cook because she can’t live on take-out forever.

She’s subscribed to a bunch of family planning magazines (she feels curious, or maybe delusional because she keeps having these crazy thoughts and it’s almost like she’s standing ten feet back so she can see the scene as a whole; she’s at the supermarket with him, who she now calls husband - that has always been the plan - and she has a baby on her hip. This is the first time they’ve gone shopping together in years, they’re that old of a couple now. Sometimes, when she’s pushing the cart up and down the aisles she witnesses the beginnings of new love. They’re easy to spot because they always come in pairs, like it takes two to pick groceries; she and Lon’qu used to be the same. New lovers have comical discussions about which brand of cereal to pick - children playing house. She kind of hates them most days she’s shopping alone but on this rare occasion that Lon’qu joins her she’s actually very amused. On their way home he asks, Were we ever stupid like that?

Yes, she says, and they grow old together.)

She’s about to fold the piece of paper (her cheeks burning red, she can't believe she’s written all of that) when she gets a call.

It’s him.

* * *

 

 

He thinks he hears something like paper crumpling on Robin’s side but doesn’t ask about it.

She asks him, When I pick you up, how do you want me to have my hair - up or down? Something you’d like me to wear? Flowers?

* * *

It’s sunny when he gets off the plane. He’d only woken up when someone nudged him and said, We’re home.

At the arrivals gate he looks for a flash of pink and white. It takes him a few seconds but it feels like eons and he doesn’t breathe until he sees her. He wants to be angry that she cut her hair because all he wants is to pretend the past two years didn’t happen, but how is he going to be able to do that if he wonders where three whole inches of her hair, from shoulder to shoulder blade, have gone?

He can’t even muster a frown though, when he encircles her waist and feels her fingers combing through his hair (they look almost the same, not like two whole years have passed). The flowers he had asked her to have on her so he could spot her quickly are crushed between them inside the pocket of her very professional-looking creamy dress shirt. This isn’t how he’d imagined her in his head but he doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to think, period.

She’s taking him to a breakfast place. Where? he doesn’t care. Give him raw horse meat, he’s learned to eat anything. Does he say that aloud? Maybe. Maybe that’s what has her laughing. He doesn’t think it’s funny, but doesn’t say much about it. Only, Can’t we just go home?

She doesn’t know that when he says that an image of their hometown comes to his head.

Sure, she tells him and he wants to apologize, he didn’t mean to be mean. But he’s so tired, can’t she see? He wants somewhere to lay down and sleep so long that when he wakes up maybe he’ll believe all this time away was a very bad dream. And maybe she’ll be there when he opens his eyes and she’s made him toast and filled a glass of warm milk for him. And her hands are in his hair again as he lays his head against her pillowy chest.

Robin makes a quick stop though. She sprints quickly into Yune’s Avenue Cafe and Lon’qu looks at her with bleary eyes slumped on the seat of her car. He notices she took the blazer in the back and put it on before entering. The people inside look like they know her.

She comes back out with a paper bag that has no business looking as fancy as it does. He doesn’t like it. Wants to tear it apart as soon as she places it on his lap but only knots his arms over his chest tighter.

Are we there yet?

Her lips press into a thin, twisted smile, like she feels if she closed her eyes she wouldn’t believe it’s Lon’qu talking to her. But it is him, in the flesh at least.

* * *

 

Her place is disgusting for a grown woman, is what Robin thinks. She frets at the door watching as Lon’qu goes in with a slow but steady stride.

There is a reason she wanted to stall; Olivia was going to come clean that sticky smudge of strawberry jam on the armrest of the couch, vacuum her hair off the carpet and put up those curtains she bought but never got around to putting up herself, put something classical on the stereo so when they came in it was a pleasant surprise, burn incense and hide (no, better burn. Burn? Burn. No wait… Just hide) the family planning magazines under _Ylliseans_ or newspapers or something that doesn’t embarrass her so much.

Instead Lon’qu is picking up a pair of underpants from the floor in the hall and a quarter-eaten chocolate bar, melting in his fingers and leaving a rectangular smudge on her precious antique pine entry table that her mother gave her after she visited once and wouldn’t stop nagging that she needed more _class_ , what would men think coming in?

Back then Robin had wanted to tell her no men but Lon’qu would be coming in. And she kind of wants to call her now and tell her with a sneer that she kept true to her word and now he’s here, not because her mother would care but because she needs to say it to somebody.

She did it. She waited for him.

Lon’qu himself should be trophy enough, she thinks, for things that she could have done and people (men) she could have talked to but didn’t, and nights that she couldn’t sleep thinking of him, kind of like a bad habit of hers. But why does it feel so stilted and artless in a weary-of-life type of way? Should this fatigue be happening so soon?

He sits down on her couch though, and suddenly she realizes it wasn’t a misplacement or the angle at which light poured in from the window or the color of the wall that made her feel something was off. He picks up the unfinished bowl of canned blueberries she’d stirred in with ricotta cheese last night as she sat down in front of the TV set but paid no attention to the news, her head full of planning and expectations and things she now sees don’t matter a lot.

She has more cans and fresher cheese, she tells him and hurries to the kitchen where she takes her mobile out and tells Olivia she doesn’t need her to come anymore. She doesn’t see him toss the paper bag from Yune’s aside like it’s dog shit inside. But she does hear him turning on the TV and then turning it off again, not finding anything that interests him. Or maybe he’s just toying around. Touching this and that. Like a newborn might do.

When she comes back with another bowl in her hands it’s much darker than when they first got in; he’s drawn the curtains. It’s not the lacy, almost see-through ones that she bought from a big store not wanting to spare a coin in her excitement to impress Lon’qu when he got back. It’s those dusty blue ones with no patterns; her first straight out of college (when she dropped out).

It’s so dark she has to walk slowly not to trip on anything. Her right knee hits the couch and she stretches her arm, fingers splayed, looking with her hand. Lon’qu takes it and pulls her down where they sit on floor pillows, resting their backs against the couch.

He doesn’t volunteer to initiate a conversation, but she doesn’t mind the silence or the dark with him. It’s thick and womb-like.

Warm and safe.

* * *

 

The next morning Robin clears a couple of drawers for Lon’qu. He doesn’t have a lot on him though. White beaters and T-shirts, cargo pants, one pair of boots, underpants and socks. He has more socks than anything else. 20 pairs or so of olive green socks. Army issued.

She’ll take him shopping, she tells him.

Lon’qu is looking inside her closet, one bare toe poking at a pair of sandals that look like Robin barely wears them. There’s other blazers hanging inside, more shirts like the one she wore yesterday to bed with him (he just kind of fell asleep with his head on her lap and she didn’t get up to get changed although he wouldn’t have woken either way; she just unclasped her bra very deftly, like only women or men who sleep around a lot know, and undid only three buttons from the top), shell-style tops, polyester sleeveless tops… Almost her entire closet is sleeveless blouses and blazers or the odd cardigan here and there and dress pants lined up at the seams and draped over cloth-padded hangers.

Do you have any jeans? he asks and that makes her laugh. He’s making her laugh a lot (two times in two days, is that really a lot? Has she always been easy to make laugh? he can’t remember).

I don’t think mine will fit you.

Lon’qu goes over to the bed where she’s put her underwear to leave space for his things in the top drawers (the top drawers; does that mean something?).

Panties and bras in neat piles. Most are rather colorless. Whities. Pink-ish. Canary yellow. Nothing lacy or with embroidery.

Robin feels very proud now that he’s here inspecting her clothes and undies. He’s not going to find a single incriminating thing. She was good.

(What Lon’qu is thinking is her wardrobe says that she’s married to her job, she needs to get out.)

Later today though, when she takes him to the mall, she’s going to excuse herself for a few minutes. She’ll say she has to go to the bathroom, leave him to pick new shirts (it’s going to be interesting seeing if he still has the same old tastes from high school; it’s kind of an erotic thought, like she’s an older woman having an affair with a young boy), and buy that backless lace purple gown with the deep V that she saw while window shopping once; she hopes it’s still on sale.

Either that one or the black mesh flyaway babydoll with matching panties.

She could have bought one of the two some days prior, but she didn’t want to take any chances. Even if she’d left them hanging with the tags still on, who knows what Lon’qu might have thought.

Next he examines her drawers. Drops in his stuff very tightly folded.

They go to the kitchen. Lon’qu sits down with his eyes closed, asks Robin to draw the curtains over the window above the sink.

But… we won’t be able to see.

Turn on the lights, he tells her.

But it’s such a nice day… Natural light is so much better.

Lon’qu watches her in front of one of the oldest looking monstrosities he’s ever seen: A Hoosier cabinet, functional for the lack of storage space in the kitchen; four small strides and he’ll be at Robin’s side. He notes the built-in flour sifter.

She tells him she might learns to bake bread. There is a recipe for blueberry muffins scribbled on a post-it note stuck to the fridge door. They are the color of some of her underpants and brassieres.

How do you like your toast?

I’m not hungry, he says.

* * *

 

Frankly, he never expected her to still be a virgin (he isn’t, but he’s not talking about that nurse), though he should have known better from her wardrobe.

For dinner it’s smoked salmon and cream cheese omelets and wine (his first).

They drink a lot; it’s mostly nerves on her part.

The next morning all he remembers is the blue vein running along the underside of her breast, but Robin has a big headache and she starts crying; she can’t even remember it and she forgot to put on the nightgown.

(What nightgown? he wonders.)

He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t like to so early in the morning yet.

* * *

 

They visit his father.

Neither Lon’qu nor his dad say much - Hello, how are you doing? Goodbye.

The old man dies next month.

* * *

 

Lon’qu meets a man named Basilio, who is the supervisor of a construction crew and invites him to work for him (he needs to get his drivers license; wage to be discussed upon skill level - though the man seems to like Lon’qu already and says he expects only good things from him). He has a patch over one eye and that concerns Robin when Lon’qu tells her, but he seems happy enough - happy enough? - to be busy.

She doesn’t know what starts it. She only says she is sad; she had wished for him to get a college education when he returned.

You sound like my mother, he says. No, my _grand_ mother.

And then it’s about how he liked her hair longer, why didn’t she call? Why didn’t he call? What was up with those letters?

You don’t know me anymore.

(Doesn’t matter. They’re all they’ve got, it’s like they’ve left themselves out of options.)

* * *

 

The lights are all off when Lon’qu comes back. He’s OK with this. Prefers it, actually. There is only the problem that by this hour Robin has at least two lights on: The one in the entrance hall and another in the bedroom or the kitchen or the living room; wherever she finds herself with a book or the laptop.

He’s not conscious of flipping the switch by the entrance, only does it as an afterthought kind of reflex when he gets his feet tangled in a sweater on the floor or whatever it is that Robin has left there.

He sees the couch on his way in and wants only to sit down. His legs hurt from the cold outside, but instead he goes to the bedroom. He doesn’t really want to deal with Robin if she’s there, but at the same time he wants to see her just once, even just out of the corner of one eye.

Just to get it done (it’s kind of his task).

He won’t feel off the hook until he does this. Kind of like when they have sex; sometimes he feels he can take a break if they’ve done it three times in a week. Or not. They could be above average. He never knew what an average or above-average couple was, back when they were in high school. He probably didn’t care either. Now though, he thinks about it all the time.

The other only light that’s on is in the bathroom. The door is halfway open and there is a sound of water running. He thinks she’s peeing but the sound just goes on and on and it sounds like a constant run. Probably the sink then. It doesn’t sound like so much water, like she’s running a hot bath.

He opens the door. His head does an involuntary jerk and he almost closes the door when he sees her in only a tank top (no bra underneath) and her whities. Maybe she’s doing some girl thing, he thinks. She’s standing in front of the mirror. Maybe she wants privacy.

But then he sees the locks of hair on the floor and her now shorter, choppy mane.

He remembers the first time he saw her again when he returned from duty. He was angry then, didn’t want to be, but was. Now he’s furious.

What the hell did you do? he doesn’t yell, to his surprise. He just sounds very curious.

Robin, who was examining herself with incredulous horror, suddenly lets out a string of sobs with her pointy chin tucked into her breastbone. How could she be so dumb?

He sighs, though it’s more like a growl, goes over to her, stops the water, glares at the pair of scissors on the rim of the sink, asks, Well? What the hell did you do?

What is he so mad about? she asks. It’s her hair, she can do whatever she wants with it, if someone is going to be mad about it with her it’s no other than herself alone.

It’s ugly, he tells her.

Well, duh, she retorts (how old is she?). I’m not a stylist or anything.

She catches a glance of herself on accident from the side. Everything looks uneven. If anyone from work sees her they’re going to ask what kind of fight she got into. Or, is she in a punk band now?

She cries harder. It’s childish, but she can’t help it. It’s her looks, alright? The outside reflects the inside. She hadn’t gotten a chance to look at her inside so clearly before.

She doesn’t have the will to muster enough strength to snatch her arm back from Lon’qu when he takes her firmly by the forearm, too embarrassed, and sits her on the rim of the bathtub. He gets out of his shoes and gets in the bathtub behind her.

Tilt your chin up, he instructs her with both of his palms over her ears and helps her.

Her shoulders heave up and down constantly; she’s holding in more sobs.

His hands fall on them.

His fingers squeeze.

Stop moving, he says.

She waits with dread the sound of more snipping. Her eyes, dejected, stare straight ahead at the doorknob, hold it in the center of her vision as the focal point. It’s her sanctuary for a while. If she looks hard enough she can’t even think. Absently, only the feeling of Lon’qu’s fingertips over her scalp register as he tilts her head this way and that.

He tells her when he’s done and her hands lift slowly to her head.

Her hair is even shorter now, her fingers realize grabbing stubby tufts with a panic.

You cut it! she accuses him.

What did you think I was doing back here all the time? he shoots back, indignant. Not sipping wine and admiring your handiwork, let me tell you.

Robin plummets all the way remaining to the floor and has a proper breakdown now. She can’t go out like this. What is she going to do, wear a wig? Like some clown?

Lon’qu doesn’t know what to do or say. He rakes his fingers through his own hair (now they both have hair about the same length) and then gets a roll of toilet paper from under the sink cabinet. He pries Robin’s hands away from her face, thinks of drying her face but gives her the paper and goes into the bedroom.

Robin folds a square into a long rectangle and places it against one cheek until it absorbs the tears and repeats with another square. Her face is almost entirely dry when Lon’qu comes back but blinking she feels small wet kisses from her eyelashes on the puffy, reddened area under her eyes.

He has the lipstick print makeup bag that Olivia gifted her once. He crouches in front of her and just stares into her eyes, then, slowly, unzips the bag and takes out a powder brush. He puts on a little blusher on her cheeks. Leaves two round, salmon pink spots over her cheekbones.

He probably didn’t use the right brush, did he?

Robin shakes her head no.

The right stuff for her face, at least?

Yeah. That, you got.

The technique is questionable though.

Next he doesn’t even bother picking a brush. He touches the tip of his right middle finger to the blue eyeshadow, reconsiders and cleans his finger on his shirt, looks up, considers the hazel flecks of her brown eyes and goes for a purple shade.

His middle finger graces the helix of her ear; he’s almost cupping her face with his right hand as he touches the purple pad of his thumb against her closed eyelid. He rubs the color left and right slowly, like windshield wipers but slower.

What Robin thinks now is that Olivia told her once how her boyfriend sometimes clasps her brassiere for her and it’s one of the kinkiest things she thinks any boyfriend could do. She thinks this doesn’t feel kinky at all, but it’s intimate in a way she likes better.

Next is the other eye, and Robin cranes her neck towards Lon’qu exposing the swan’s length of her throat that his eyes fall to for a second before returning to her face.

She has her knees hugged to her chest.

Lon’qu ends up smudging all sorts of color over her face. Gets out the red lipstick but one look at how intense it is and he shoves it back into the bag all the way to the bottom. The bag is as big as his fist.

At some point Robin tells him that when her grandmother was hospitalized, when she was little, she had visited her once and watched her mother spooning peaches into her mouth. Every spoonful she made sure it was the right amount and when juice dripped down her throat she dipped the tip of a cloth napkin into a glass of water and touched it to her skin.

Watching her mother feeding grandma was like watching a painter working on a canvas, touching color to the blank surface every now and then, not very fast but constantly. Thinking about it a minute or so before each stroke of the brush.

That’s how I feel right now, she tells him.

Lon’qu’s hand halts. Hovers unsteadily between them with the brush of gloss millimeters away from her lips.

That pink tongue comes out, wets her lips self consciously when he does nothing for too long. His left hand is holding her head up at a slight angle, he notices now. His thumb under her jaw leaves a pale yellow stain when he removes it and leans in for a kiss.

This kiss isn’t hungry or passionate at first but it burns brighter the longer they keep at it. Mostly, it’s Lon’qu who kisses harsher. Robin just lets it happen.

Let’s sleep in the tub, he says.

He goes to get pillows and blankets and the cover and in the brief moment that he’s gone Robin looks at her face in the mirror again. Her hair isn’t so bad; she can ask Olivia to make it into a modern bob sometime tomorrow (as soon as possible, please). It’s the makeup that appals her. She can’t say she looks pretty, or that she likes it. But the memory of Lon’qu’s fingers on her face lingers like a desperate whisper. Like there is something she needs to understand; a message hidden.

They are never snuggled so tightly together on the bed, they both think when they get in the tub and lay down on the blankets. There is space for only one pillow and they share it. One of his hands gropes her chest and the other the flesh of her hip, briefly. She hooks one leg over his and rubs at his back under his shirt.

They don’t say goodnight or have sweet dreams. Don’t even kiss again.

That’s alright, though.

* * *

 

 

The next day it’s a Sunday and they wake up aching all over. It’s hard to tell what belongs to who at first.

One look at her face and Lon’qu looks away trying to hold in a laugh that comes from the bottom of his heart. Robin rubs at her face with both of her palms and the problem grows worse.

We need to shower, he tells her.

They toss blankets and the cover along with the pillow now smudged with makeup over the rim of the tub. He hooks his thumbs on each side of her underwear and slips it down her legs. Helps her out of her top too. She undresses him in return.

Lon’qu lathers shampoo into her very short, very boyish hair like an apology.

Robin leans into him like she accepts it. It’s silly anyway. It’s just hair.

After they get out and get dressed Lon’qu takes out the shoebox under Robin’s side of the bed and goes to the range. Robin finds him burning the letters he sent her during the two years he was away and she gasps.

What are you doing?

He doesn’t lift his gaze from the flame. It’s strangely gratifying to watch the blue chai tea color turn to black.

You don’t need these anymore, he says. I’m back.

* * *

It becomes apparent that Robin can’t keep anything down. They’re having dinner one day and Lon’qu asks her what’s wrong? Is the fish not good? Her face looks green. And then Robin jumps from her seat, takes the jar of jellybeans on the counter by the fridge, dumps the beans to the floor and throws up inside the jar.

Lon’qu just kind of sits there, frozen.

Eww… he finally says.

Robin glares at him when she’s done.

* * *

 

He still does her makeup sometimes. She knows now not to talk to him until twenty minutes after he’s awake, but it’s OK if she wants to ruffle his hair. She also has noticed that although Lon’qu likes the dark and having his head under the covers, he also likes creamy colors. There’s a painting she got from a garage sale hanging on the wall to the left side of the bed. She only bought it because the guy who painted it (she was surprised) asked her if she liked it, what did she think about the colors of the flowers, it was his first abstract piece.

She did not know the first thing about abstract flowers, but nodded enthusiastically at all the guy said and gave him a few G for it. Just to get him off her back.

She then hung up the painting in her room because, why not? It’s not an eyesore, that she’s sure of at least. But Lon’qu seems to like it. Most times when she’s riding him her eyes are closed but sometimes she will notice he’s not even looking at her breasts, he’s instead looking at the wall. At the painting on the wall, to be more exact.

So, she lets him do her makeup. Asked him if he was interested in painting once at the store, stroking the leaves of Lucky Bamboo plants like she was interested, but he said he wasn’t that sort of person: Artistic. She wanted to tell him that’s not true. She sees his hands when he’s fixing something around the place - a leak or a tipsy chair - and she thinks he moves in a very delicate and careful way.

She doesn’t really know how to put it in words, but there is a _depth_ to how he moves.

He’s fine, thanks. His hands get restless from time to time though (gotta let his arms loose), and that’s when she takes out her brushes (though he prefers to use his hands) and ties up her hair with an elastic band, sits with him on the center of the bed sticking her face forward.

She makes popcorn.

* * *

 

Robin’s closet has become very cramped. The floor is strewn with both dirty and clean clothes that she doesn’t know where to put anymore; the hamper is full.

Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten so many maternity clothes, she says and Lon’qu tells her not to be dumb.

She suspects he likes her pregnant because they’re having sex more often now. Maybe it’s the fact that they don’t have to worry for condoms now that she’s pregnant. But maybe there’s something more. Lon’qu touches her more often now. Not always in a sexual way, but Robin does notice that his hands are often on her. On her back mostly, over the spot where it hurts most.

They’re not married yet and they haven’t talked about getting married, but Lon’qu has already referred to her as his wife on several occasions; actually tries to work some way to saying it in conversations. But for that he actually has to have conversations so he’s working on that.

There’s a guy working on the same construction crew as he, Gregor, who isn’t married but looks interested when Lon’qu mentions Rob- _his wife_ is pregnant. Their supervisor invites him to get beers after he hears and asks all sorts of question that Lon’qu feels he should be mad at, but, strangely, isn’t. He gets a kick out of the topic.

The lists of names.

How she wraps herself around him at night.

Her breasts which seem bigger every day.

They’re thinking of moving somewhere more spacious now. Lon’qu thinks that Robin could be an interior decorator or something like that because she made titanic efforts to rearrange the furniture in their apartment to find space for a crib, and although everything she suggested looked pretty good the place is still undeniably too small.

She considers this. Yeah, right, she says. Who’s going to stay with the baby if I start working again? (took off on maternity leave, only one month to go and Robin’s feet have fluid retention issues - from the pressure of the growing baby on the veins in her groin, they found out - only Lon’qu works now and Robin’s mother sends checks; they get by.)

He doesn’t think about it before saying, I will.

Are you serious? Robin asks him.

He stops a second to think about it.

Yes. It’s something he can seen himself doing. He imagines (this is all a fantasy in his head now) that he convinces Robin to take a class at the local college; Career Development. His supervisor, Basilio, said to him that he saw potential in him and recommended he take the class. It’s easy and motivational and when Robin comes out of that classroom, realizing her talents, she says, I’m doing it. I’m going to be an interior decorator.

He sells his parents’ house to help her with her studies and to get a house somewhere sunny where he can plant stuff in their garden almost year-round, but still somewhat north so they get white winters, so Robin can whisper to him under the covers, _Warm me up, baby, yes?_

Robin isn’t interested in gardening still but she sits out on the porch with her long legs stretched out in front of her (her belly is huge now) studying with her books and the laptop and sometimes she looks up to see what he’s doing: Smiles, drinks lemon juice because it helps her curb the nausea.

Then one night when they’re in bed, she starts having pains and tells him it’s time. She’s still surrounded by books that get knocked over the bed as they get up because Lon’qu thinks she looks sexy this way and that’s how she almost always appears in his head.

Robin calls Olivia while he drives her to the hospital and her friend meets them there when he’s filling out the forms. He’s OK with Olivia there but maybe he doesn’t get along with Virion. Robin sits on a wheelchair waiting for a room and he bends down, takes off her shoes, massages her feet.

During labor he realizes he’s been very busy getting married - he asks her one night that he takes her out to a restaurant where all the tables are meant for only two to sit at -, shopping for diapers and paint for the baby’s room and a crib, stuffed toys, a car seat, the clothes, a stroller and a small potted plant to put on the window sill; it’s alright, the baby won’t reach it.

Then there is a small hand reaching through a bundle of fabric that has been laid on his arms.

The name comes to him.

This is Morgan, his son.

He dreamt about him once, but he forgot all about him when he woke up and went to get the mail like his father asked him to.

He takes Morgan’s waving hand, a way of saying hi perhaps, and inspects the fingernails already looking like they need trimming. Robin wants to hold him but he can’t bring himself to let go. Just a minute, he’s getting to know his boy.

In the next two years that come he becomes aware in the back of his mind that Robin gets hired (not much registered, engrossed with his son as he was) and each morning before she goes out he tells her, Give’em hell.

(Robin looks back at him and Morgan before going out the door but consoles herself thinking that she’ll do Morgan’s piggies when she comes back while he makes dinner - pigs in a blanket that Morgan likes to play with making _oink-oink_ noises (while he and Robin discuss the bills), celery sticks, creamed corn and stuffed potato pancakes for appetizers.)

Then it’s only him and Morgan in the house and he takes him out to the garden where he sits with him on the grass and lets him play with his toy tool set between his legs. Morgan likes digging up worms, maybe. What kid doesn’t? But he’s careful not to let him anywhere near the rose bushes yet, he might prick his fingers with the thorns.

Morgan’s fingers are thin like his mother’s, but he has his father’s colors.

Sometimes he talks to Morgan. Not in a stupid cooing manner, but he tells Morgan of the forest he got lost in when he was in Valm. His son doesn’t understand but maybe it’s for the best. It just serves to calm himself. He also tells him about grandpa (his father, not Robin’s) and how silent he was, and grandma; she would have had such a kick out of him finally giving her a grandchild. She always seemed like that sort of mom.

He spoon-feeds Morgan trying to imitate the way Robin told him her mother had fed her grandmother in her deathbed, or that night he painted her face - he’d wanted to make love that night but was too tired. Then it starts snowing (it’s early for snow, but a pleasant surprise) and Morgan starts jumping up and down in his highchair (he likes high chairs; watching waitresses bring them to their family table, nights that they go out to a nearby family restaurant) as he watches the first snowflakes through the kitchen window over the sink.

Just a minute, he says patiently. I’m almost done with the dishes.

Then he dresses him up in his tiny jacket, his tiny pants, his tiny socks, his tiny boots, his tiny gloves.

Morgan doesn’t know how to make proper snowballs yet but he helps him. There is a pile of a dozen snowballs sitting by his side and Morgan takes them with both hands, throws them clumsily at the roses.

(His son has a good arm, when he’s older maybe he buys him baseball equipment and they play in the front yard while Robin watches from the porch drinking more lemon juice because she hasn’t told him but she’s pregnant again, and the juice is going to give her away. Morgan hits his pitches, not all the time but very often and he accuses, Dad, are you going easy on me?)

Maybe he lays down to make snow angels with his son, maybe Morgan doesn’t know how to and lays on his stomach with his butt sticking up and when he asks if he can eat the snow he puts a small amount on his tongue, or maybe he fastens him inside his jacket when his nose turns pink at the tip and sneezes.

He kisses Morgan’s nose.

**Author's Note:**

> The joys of domestic angst, I say. 
> 
> Kind of a rushed fanfic. I was feeling rushed when I wrote this. Very hyper. Normally I can't write when I'm not hyper. So probably this sucks, but anyways:
> 
> Ke'ri: I didn't want her to be what I originally imagined (some nice girl who fits the Mary Sue bill; I'm ashamed that's what I dreamed her up as). Instead she's a bit selfish for seeking comfort for herself in writing to people she thinks are as lonely as she. I've done that. It's only human I guess. 
> 
> Gaius: Sorry babe. You're one of my favorite ones. Didn't mean to do this to you. 
> 
> Robin: How in the game they say to their S/O that they want to grow old together makes me think they're rather old-fashioned. Dunno. It sounds like an old-fashioned thing to say. And I love it. 
> 
> Lon'qu: He has depth. My cannon of him is that he's a hands-on person and in AUs he always does something realted to manual work (painting, or woodcarving or stuff like that; I already wrote he carves on wood in another story though, so I didn't want to repeat).


End file.
